


nobody taught you how to love slow

by alongthewatchtower



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Canon What Canon, Fragile Breakable Humans, Knotting, M/M, Marking, Possessive Behavior, Sex in Wolf Form
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 22:11:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4409666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alongthewatchtower/pseuds/alongthewatchtower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People see the marks and assume that because Stiles is Derek’s bitch, he’s, well, Derek’s <i>bitch.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	nobody taught you how to love slow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [metencephalon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/metencephalon/gifts).



> drabblefic. I blame paz. I really have no idea what this is.

 

People see the marks assume that because Stiles is Derek’s bitch, he’s, well, Derek’s  _bitch._

 

No. That came out wrong. Stiles is Derek’s mate. Properly claimed and _marked_ Alpha-mate. Other packs show him deference and respect even though he’s human, smirking all the while. Scott still screws up his nose every time Stiles goes in for a hug, because Stiles usually smells like  _alpha_ , like sweat and sex, but Scott and the others listen to him now, hard-wired instinct to protect and defend and obey their Alpha’s mate.

 

That doesn’t stop the worried looks, though, because Stiles is still human, still  _breakable_ , and he marks easily, pale skin telling a story of its own.

 

  
_Here_ is the purple smudge of a bruise on his cheekbone from when Derek turned him over the kitchen table two days ago, one hand at the nape of Stiles’ neck, holding him down so all he could do was hold steady against Derek as he fucked in hard, not even allowing Stiles the freedom of movement to shove himself back, to meet the thrusts of Derek’s cock, to push back.

 

There’s five little scratches on each hip, the points where Derek held on too hard, where clawed fingers broke skin as he pulled Stiles down onto his cock, helping Stiles ride him hard and fast, face curling into a snarl over human teeth as he fucks himself down onto Derek’s knot like he’s punishing it.

 

Raw skin on his knees, because Derek in full shift has even less patience than Stiles, and sometimes you just have to fuck in the forest under the moon, okay? There’s nothing quite like warm weight holding you down, fur tickling against your back and thighs, an Alpha in full wolf form braced over you and rutting hard.

 

Bruises the exact shape of fingers on his thigh, right up under his right knee where Derek gripped too-tight, because even when they make love, even when the wildness between them is lazy with calm, Stiles likes to _feel_ it, likes Derek to hold him open even as he's hooked the other leg over Derek's shoulders, body lax with pleasure as Derek smiles down at him, fucking in slow and steady and inevitable.

 

A pulled muscle in his groin that makes him limp in a way that Isaac smirks at, and Stiles is Derek’s bitch, okay, but that doesn’t mean he’s always on the bottom, because sometimes it’s Derek being fucked into at the base of the stairs, because they couldn’t wait to get upstairs, too caught up in re-learning each other’s bodies, two days apart and freshly healed skin on Derek’s chest where an omega tried to claw out his heart, and when Stiles presses his hand down firmly, Derek’s thighs locked around Stiles’ hips, pulling him closer, always closer.

 

Rope burn around his wrists from the last time Stiles was taken by idiot hunters, and by the time Derek and the pack were done with the gallant rescue, there was blood spattered warm on Stiles’ face as he hung from the ceiling and he raised an eyebrow, said  _well, are you going to untie me?_  Derek didn’t reply, just went to his knees instead and swallowed him down, losing himself in the smell of  _mate._

 

Stiles is lucky his Dad has a better idea of what being a werewolf’s mate means, these days. Sometimes when the Sheriff gets a glimpse of finger-shaped bruises, he presses his lips together and carefully says nothing, a silence that says _if it were anyone else he’d be cooling his heels in a cell and we’d be asking you if you wanted to press charges -_

But his Dad knows better, these days, and has seen Stiles crouched over a healing Derek, possessive and protective and dangerous, bloodied baseball bat in one hand and the other so very gentle in Derek’s hair. Stiles isn’t an innocent. He once hosted a thousand year old demon in his skin, and sometimes he itches, down deep where it’s impossible to scratch, at the very core of his being, the thing inside him that wants to bite and claw and _destroy_  - and maybe the nogitsune brought it out, but this darkness is Stiles’ own. He never flinches from Derek, even when he should, goes toe-to-toe with the feral and the mystical and the just plain _wrong_ , reckless and giddy with the danger, and it’s not that he has a death wish, exactly, but some days it’s close enough. That’s what Derek is for, though. They’re tied together now, bound so deeply that there’s something in Stiles that always reins him in just a bit, the thought of leaving Derek behind. He can’t - he would never. And so he lives to fight another day, scratched and scarred and unafraid, because there’s nothing they can’t face together.

 

There’s the mark where the skin of pale neck meets pale shoulder, red and purple and black, never healing, half bite and half hickey, always raw, the place where Derek bites down as he comes. Afterwards, when Derek’s knot deflates enough that they can separate, still panting, Stiles swats away the hand that comes to take away the ache in his ass. “Leave it,” he says. “You know I like to feel it."

 

“I don’t like it when you’re in pain,” Derek says, stubborn, and reaches for Stiles again.

 

Stiles huffs, dragging his tired, fucked out body up so he can move to straddle Derek, so his sensitive ass is resting on Derek’s belly. “Yes you do,” he says, and presses himself down, knows Derek can feel his own come drip out of Stiles’ hole with the movement. “You love it,” Stiles says, smug, balancing himself with his hands pressed to Derek’s pecs, muscles that shift and tense under his fingers.

 

He smirks as he shifts again, grinds his ass down, smearing tacky come between them. “Knowing I can feel you inside me all day, fucked-out and loose where you’ve been, where you held me down and gave me your knot, stretching my body to fit, to make a place just for you."

 

Stiles meets red eyes and slowly, deliberately, rakes his own too-long nails down Derek’s chest, down those beautiful abs, leaving raw skin in his wake, ten red lines and a smear of blood as Derek hisses and arches beneath him, cock twitching where it's pressed against the cheeks of Stiles' ass. The human smirks, and does it again.

 

Stiles likes to leave marks, too. The ones he makes just heal faster.


End file.
